He stared aghast at the slender vials.Perfume was perfume.It could not be targeted at a single source.If the new concoction worked half as well asDuke, she would have to wield an umbrella about to shield herself from all the smitten swains.
The strange sensation in his stomach didn’t go away.How many tally marks would that be?Nicholas might be heir presumptive to a dukedom he was unlikely to inherit, but he was far from the only gentleman in town.
The Duke of Azureford famously had a cottage right here in the village.Azureford!An actual handsome, single duke who did not requireeau de toiletteto attract young ladies.He was unequivocally the better catch.
“Are you going to sit?”she asked.
He sat.
There was no reason to be jealous, he told himself.Azureford had always been the better man.Almost everyone was.Nicholas wasn’t the marrying type.He wasn’t even going to stay in Christmas.His feelings were irrelevant.What Miss Mitchell did on her own time had absolutely nothing to do with him.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“How do you know?”She lifted the stopper from a vial.“Would you like to smell it?”
He wanted to stop it.This was worse thanDuke.
“Sell me exclusive production rights,” he said quickly.“Name your price.”
She lowered her nose to the vial.“Why do you think everything can be bought?”
Clearly it could not.He would have to find some other way to halt its production.
“If you’re just going to glower at me over my shoulder, then you might as well go back into the kitchen.”She stoppered the vial and placed it back with its siblings.“I knew having a guest in here would be a bad idea.”
His heart skipped at her words.He stared at her speechlessly.She had brought the stool in for him.He was the first person she’d allowed in her private space.And he was about to lose that privilege due to a raging case of illogical jealousy.
“I’ll stay,” he said quickly.“I’ve finished glowering.Tell me what you do with these vials.Do you measure with them, like we did for the biscuits?”
“Not like the biscuits at all,” she said with a chuckle.“The ones over here…”
So began a fascinating, if abbreviated, tour.There was far more in her laboratory than could be discovered in twelve short minutes.Nicholas doubted he could understand it all in twelve months or twelve years.
Miss Mitchell was nothing short of a genius.He loved listening to the passion in her voice as she described how the layer water between the nested containers of herbain marieallowed gentle heating at fixed temperatures, or the struggle to achieve the perfect drip rate and monitor appropriate volume levels without disrupting active experiments.
He drank it all in.He couldn’t look away if he tried.Science made her so beautiful.Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed, and her joyful smile could be felt all the way to his toes.He was forced to engage every shield in his arsenal.
She was exactly the wrong sort of woman.Not because of her interests or looks or mannerisms.But because he was going to miss her.His throat dried.He had never missed anyone before.Never known anyone for long enough.Every second spent with her would flay open his soul when it came time to leave.
And of course he would walk away.It was what he did.But more importantly, if she was wrong for him, he was very, very wrong for her.She knew it as well as he did.
All he had to offer was a body that she had helpfully pointed out would one day soon be going to shite, rendering him useless.What she had to offer was beauty and brains, science and sweetness, biscuits and friendship and laughter.She deserved more.
He wished he could impress her the way she impressed him.Their easy rapport was as terrifying as it was addictive.He enjoyed her company so much.Dreamt each night about coming back.
He thought again about the scrap of glass lying out on her mantel.It symbolized so much to him, although to any other observer it would look like nothing at all.Perhaps her maid would mistake it for rubbish and toss it directly in the bin.Perhaps she would do so herself.
After all, she didn’t expect anything from him.To her, he was just some rake with nothing but wenching on his brain.
His stomach twisted.He could fix that, if he told her the truth.He could saywe both love creating things with our handsor evenI have a workshop, too.But what if she laughed?Or what if she believed him, but didn’t care?
The only way to prove himself to her as something other than an aging gigolo would be to rip off the mask.He could not risk destroying the image he had so carefully crafted.It was all he had.Once it was gone, there would be nothing to fall back on.
A dull object crashed to the roof over their heads with a thud, followed by a strange, rhythmic scratching sound.
Her startled eyes met his.“Something’s on my roof.”
He nodded.“I hear it.”
